Readings in Deviant Behavior 6th Edition Calhoun Conyers Test Bank

Readings in Deviant Behavior 6th Edition

Calhoun Conyers Test Bank

Full download chapter at: https://testbankbell.com/product/readings-in-

deviant-behavior-6th-edition-calhoun-conyers-test-bank/

Visit TestBankBell.com to get complete for all chapters

Chapter 1
Images of Deviance
by
Stephen Pfohl
True – False
_____ 1.1 What is considered deviance, according to Pfohl in his article “Images
of
Deviance,” is relative to time.
_____ 1.2 Pfohl asserts, in “Images of Deviance,” that individuals become
deviant
only as a result of being in opposition to those whom they threaten.
_____ 1.3 In his article “Images of Deviance,” Pfohl proclaims that what is
officially
labeled illegal or deviant has nothing to do with what society
economically values but rather with whether the thing is physically
harmful.
_____ 1.4 Deviance is always the flip side of the coin used to maintain social
control.
_____ 1.5 To illustrate how deviants are created, Pfohl in his article “Images of
Deviance” uses the writings of Ernest Hemingway.
_____ 1.6 According to Pfohl in his article “Images of Deviance,” the story of
deviance and social control is a battle story.
_____ 1.7 It appears from Pfohl’s article “Images of Deviance” that he would
agree
deviance exists only in opposition to those whom the so-called deviants
threaten and those who have enough power to control the deviants.
_____ 1.8 According to Pfohl in his article “Images of Deviance,” deviants never
exist except in relation to those who attempt to control them.
_____ 1.9 Pfohl in his article “Images of Deviance” asserts that what is officially
labeled illegal or deviant has little to do with what is economically
valuable to society but mostly with what is physically harmful.
_____ 1.10 According to Pfohl in his article “Images of Deviance,” sexist
heterosexuals are as likely to be labeled deviant as are gay, lesbian, or
bisexual lovers who caress one another with affection.
Copyright © 2010 Pearson Education, Inc. Publishing as Allyn & Bacon.
1
Multiple Choice
1.11 To illustrate how deviants are created, Pfohl in his article “Images of
Deviance” uses the
writings from which of the following literary greats.
a. Edgar Allen Poe
b. Mark Twain
c. Ernest Hemingway
d. John Steinbeck
1.12 According to Pfohl in his article “Images of Deviance,” losers in the battle
story of
deviance and social control may:
a. be viewed as living outside the boundaries of conventional life
b. be seen by others as evil, sleazy, dirty, or dangerous
c. come to see themselves as deviants
d. all of the above
1.13 According to Pfohl in his article “Images of Deviance,” winners:
a. are trapped within the vision of others
b. obtain the privilege of organizing social life as they see fit
c. seek support from the losers
d. all of the above
1.14 When viewing the 1991 Gulf War between Iraq and the United States,
according to Pfohl
in his article “Images of Deviance,” Iraqi President Saddam Hussein was
portrayed as:
a. Hitler-like character bent on world domination
b. an innocent victim in the conflict
c. Stalin of the 1990s
d. all of the above
1.15 When viewing the 1991 Gulf War between Iraq and the United States,
according to Pfohl
in his article “Images of Deviance,” Iraq felt that the attack by the United
States was actually
intended to:
a. make President Hussein an American ally
b. keep the price of oil from going up
c. both A&B above
d. none of the above
Copyright © 2010 Pearson Education, Inc. Publishing as Allyn & Bacon.
2
Short-Answer Essay
1.16 Pfohl asserts in his article “Images of Deviance” that the story of deviance
and social
control is a battle story. What arguments does he present which would allow
one to arrive at this
 Another random document
un-related content on Scribd:
And so they, at length, reached the border of the wood—she ruminating
upon vengeance, and he almost tragically annoyed by the thought that they
had given cause for scandal to the gossips they had left behind.
Finally, the path became more devious, and as they advanced the
magnificent beauty of the scene burst upon them. Through an opening in
the trees the sun burned like a ball of fire. From every hand were wafted
strains of rapturous melody. Thousands of feathered songsters were joining
in one grand chorus of praise to God.
Affected in spite of himself, Savin’s face became more gentle, while
Catherine’s softened almost to tenderness. But the moment of possible
reconciliation passed, and home was reached.
Upon a small bluff, half hidden by trees, stood a cosy little cottage, built of
wood and brick. As if conscious of its modest architectural pretensions, the
chalet was quite enveloped in a network of clematis and woodbine, and a
rustic veranda afforded a picturesque effect to the tiny villa. Behind it the
forest plunged into a vast ravine, at the bottom of which brawled a little
brook among the rocks. The mid-day sunlight beat upon the façade of the
cottage and radiantly glinted the leaves of the surrounding trees, among
which a dozen or more poplars extended a grateful shade over the little
garden.
Catherine and Savin did not linger without, but entered the house together.
The former, throwing upon the table the fichu she had worn, seated herself
by the open window and began nervously tapping the floor with her foot.
A quarrel seemed imminent. Once more in their own home Catherine knew
her husband would cease to be vehement. Barrau seated himself on one side
of the table and watched Patachaud as he eagerly drank a cup of water
which was always ready for him. Two strangers passed by, remarking on the
flowers which covered the cottage roof.
At length, Barrau rose from his chair and broke the silence by saying: “We
must have dinner now, Catherine.”
“You are hungry, then,” said she, with reproach. “Well, then, go and eat. I
do not prevent you. Surely in order to keep so strong as you are, you must
eat heartily.”
Her words cut him to his soul’s quick.
“Do not be rebellious, Catherine. Come, now.”
She bounded to her feet and bent upon him her flashing eyes.
“It is I who am wrong, then. I am the culprit, eh? You strike me, and then
call me rebellious. Indeed, I ought to rebel, and for good, too.”
“Catherine,” said Savin severely.
“Ah, why did I marry a common brutal soldier?”
Barrau blushed. The thrust struck home.
“Enough! Enough!” said he, rudely; “I am the master here, at least. And any
honest woman should not make such a remark.”
“Indeed! I am a worthless jade, am I? A coquette? A good-for-nothing?”
Savin made an impatient gesture.
“Say it,” she went on; “do not hesitate.”
As though to prevent further disagreement, Savin started to go, but his
anger forced him to stop and say: “Ah, well, yes. Yes, then! A woman who
compromises herself in the presence of evil tongues has no self-respect.”
“Take care!” cried Catherine, advancing toward him in anger.
“Take care yourself, my child. Do your duty and be circumspect is all I ask.
But no more coquetry, you understand, or——”
“Or—you will kill me, perhaps. Well, then, do it. Kill me, if you will.”
“Madame,” said he, solemnly, “I do not come from a family of assassins.”
Catherine’s face turned livid. She fell heavily to the floor, and Savin could
have bitten his tongue out for his cruel words.
 CHAPTER IV.
THE STAMPEDE.

Three weeks later. The annual cattle show at St. Benoit is about to open. St.
Benoit is the great region for fine cattle in France. From miles around the
farmers and peasants assemble to exhibit the beasts they have fattened to
sell in Paris at a reasonable profit.
Every road is crowded. Oxen, cows, and sheep fill the thoroughfares and
byways, and the quaint rural habitations are gayly decorated with flags and
streamers. Not a drop of rain has fallen since the famous day of the
raspberry fête, and each morning the sun has risen in the east with more
scorching radiance.
The large hamlet of St. Benoit, perfectly suited to such a fair, is crowded in
spite of its size. As the sun climbs above the horizon, the cattle accumulate
in greater numbers. The peasants are in the best of good spirits, and talk is
heard and laughter rings on all sides. Perhaps the buyers are treated with
rather more deference than the sellers, but those who come neither to buy
nor to sell address themselves to the various schemes of pleasure. The fair is
for everybody, and, at all events, it offers an admirable opportunity to “eat,
drink, and be merry.”
The two public houses of the place are not without guests, and the
respective landlords are gathering in a goodly supply of the sine qua non of
life and not stopping to count the centimes. More than one young rascal,
with nothing to sell and no money to buy, finds his way to the village inn
and does not leave there thirsty. Among this class are two men who make
more noise than all the rest, and who await the inevitable fistic encounter
with interest. One of them is Andoche the blacksmith, an expert in his trade,
but still more skilful in spoiling wine by drinking it.
As he sits just outside the door of the public house, at one of the tables, he
appears ill at ease. In the rural portions of France people do not like to drink
conspicuously, but in Paris it is different. The peasant, conscious that he
might better spend his money in some other direction, prefers to take his
libations under cover or behind a screen. To get tipsy is all well enough, he
thinks; but it is not necessary that the whole world should witness the
process from start to finish.
At length, Andoche and his friend proceed to the fair-grounds, not because
they prefer to do so, but for the very simple reason that Jeanrobert, the
landlord, will not trust either for another centime’s worth. Andoche cannot
hope to find another man so generous as Fadard, with whom he has taken
his last tipple. Fadard is either an old man who seems to have petrified in
his youth, or a young man who too soon has been claimed by a precocious
old age. Fadard does not belong in the town, but everybody knows him, for
several times in the course of a year he comes to pay his respects—as he
claims—to one Léocadia Faillot, who passes as his cousin. Evil tongues,
like those of Rosalie and Victoire, make up all sorts of stories in regard to
them; but they really do Mlle. Faillot an injustice. The fact is, this dried-up
old young or young old man is actually a relative, who only comes to see
her to borrow money now and then.
In the centre of the market-place, the Mayor, a large, solemn old man,
stands talking with four or five equally aged citizens. He is a hardy old man
of eighty-five years, strong as an oak, straight as a classic marble pillar, but
avaricious, penurious, and cunning in the extreme. He owes his
administrative position alone to his skilful management in once conducting
a herd of cattle through the circuitous pathways of Forêt-au-Duc. A more
truly imposing sight than that of the sturdy old man driving his oxen, and
making them obey with a simple touch of the lash, could scarcely be found.
As he stands near the cattle, suddenly a refractory bull, seizing his
opportunity, lowers his horns as if to strike.
“Pardon me, Father Jerome,” speaks a voice behind him at this moment,
“but, at your age, a blow from a bull would be an ugly present.”
“It is you, then, Savin, my boy. Thanks for your caution. And how is
Madame Catherine to-day?”
Savin’s face takes on a glowering look.
“For good health, my wife has no equal,” he replies, evasively.
“Well, well, that is certainly a blessing. But does she remain as indifferent?”
“There is no change, good father,” answered Savin, sadly.
Madame Barrau herself now joins the group, and so the subject is dropped.
While they greet Catherine with due courtesy, it is plain to see that a barrier
divides the husband and wife. Catherine remains but a moment, and then
excuses herself to speak with an acquaintance. As for Savin, he waits an
instant after her departure, and then turning upon his heel walks away in an
opposite direction.
“Noble fellow,” observes the Mayor, as Savin disappears from view. “I fear
he has made a bitter mistake.”
“What! In marrying D’Angerolles’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“How so?”
“Opinions differ as to that. Some say he loved her in secret for many
months, while that sot of an Andoche declares that he was caught in a trap.”
“She is not the wife for him, that is certain.”
“Be that as it may, he has been captured by the fair Catherine. How—
nobody knows.”
“Ah, but somebody knows,” insists Parjeau, with emphasis.
“Who?”
“Why, Andoche, to be sure. He is coming this way. Shall I call him?”
“Yes, on condition that he is sober. When in his cups he respects neither
man nor beast.”
Celestin Parjeau beckons to the blacksmith, but the latter, fearing lest he
lose a chance to gain another “smile,” pretends not to see the signal. One of
the little urchins playing near by is sent to bring him, and so Andoche is
obliged to join them.
“The gamekeeper,” he begins, “you want to know about him? A very
delicate subject to discuss, because one cannot speak openly. The army
teaches us two great duties. One is never to imbibe spirituous liquors to
excess, and the other is to be generous in dealing with all questions of
sentiment, especially where a woman is concerned, and practically to say
nothing. I am a soldier and have had experience in those things.”
“You are drunk again,” remarks the Mayor, candidly.
“I? Indeed, no! You may place Parjeau there in my arms, and I will carry
him straight as a die to the post road.”
“Well, if you are not intoxicated, you at least are talking nonsense—cheap
nonsense.”
“But I have more to say.”
“Well, proceed, but be quick about it.”
“You were speaking of Savin, eh? A man who is the soul of honor, and
generous, too, by the saints. Being a sergeant-major he knows the world as
it stands. He has seen service, too, and——”
“To the point,” cry his hearers, impatiently.
“Ah, well, why pursue the subject? You all know D’Angerolles’s story.”
“Yes. He was suspected of shooting——”
“Suspected?”
“Yes, Andoche. It was but a mere suspicion.”
“They found old Martin dead on his doorstep. D’Angerolles had passed by
only twenty-five minutes before, with his gun on his shoulder, and as a
report was heard but a moment previous to his quitting the mill, you
understand, it looked more than suspicious.”
“But, Andoche, D’Angerolles had no motive or object in killing Martin.”
“Vengeance is strong.”
“But he never said a word against the old man.”
“That counts for nothing.”
“But how is Savin concerned?”
“True—I had forgotten. Savin, full of sympathy and kind-heartedness, took
D’Angerolles’s part in the affair and bravely upheld him from beginning to
end. Nobody could speak aught against Catherine’s father before him.”
“Did he love her at that time?”
“It appears not. But her youth, after her father’s death, appealed to him. She
was all alone and unprotected from the taunts of malevolent persons who
went so far as to call her the daughter of an assassin. None spoke to her
save to insult her, and her life was wretched. Poor child! She cried day and
night. Somebody advised her to go away—to Paris—where no questions
would be asked. But Savin came to the rescue. He learned how cruelly
people were talking about her and he was incensed. He picked many a
quarrel on her account. Among others Rosalie did not hesitate to calumniate
Mademoiselle d’Angerolles and to insinuate that between her and Savin too
intimate relations existed. At this Barrau was furious, of course, and the
upshot of it all was that he protected Catherine by making her his wife.
Nobody now dares to say a word. But it was a queer thing, after all. Had she
been a peasant, it would have seemed different. But her father was a
gentleman, and it appears she has no common talent for learning.”
“That is nothing derogatory to her character, my friend.”
“No, but we do not live like Parisians here. A different ménage might better
please the haughty Catherine.”
“Pshaw! Her lot should be a happy one.”
“Come, come,” breaks out Andoche, “let us drink to our Mayor’s health.”
“Thanks, thanks, Andoche; but none for me, if you please.”
“Upon my invitation? I beg you will not refuse,” returns Andoche, with
mock politeness. “As a soldier and gentleman, however, I will have the
grace to excuse you should you insist.”
The Mayor, Parjeau, and others refuse, and the blacksmith turns to join his
companion, Fadard. The fair progresses, the business transactions being
concluded with more celerity as the heat becomes more intense. The sun
tortures the animals like the close heat of a furnace fire. Those that by
fortunate chance are near wells or ponds can leap in and cool themselves in
the water, but the rest—that is to say, ninety per cent. of them—raise their
parched heads toward heaven as if seeking some rain-cloud to refresh
themselves. Besides, the flies, the mosquitoes, and especially the gnats
exasperate them to desperation.
There is perhaps no person on the face of the earth more invulnerable to the
sun’s rays than the French peasant. To-day, however, there is a general
admission that it is intolerably hot. Some, fearing that even their cattle may
die of sunstroke, place them under shelter without reference to whether they
can be sold. But many poor beasts are left to suffer, and their piteous lowing
is distinctly heard above the hum and din of the fair.
The Mayor, with his experienced eye, surveys the scene on all sides. Like a
mariner who feels a coming storm before any sign is evident to his eyes,
Father Jerome has the air of a man who foresees danger. Walking in the
shade of the great trees, he touches his neighbor’s elbow and says: “My
friend, this heat is going to play bad pranks on us.”
“What makes you think so?” demands Parjeau.
“Mon Dieu! It is not well to predict evil, but do you see those eight or ten
yoke of oxen down there by Simmonet’s mill? Well, there it will begin—the
stampede, I mean. Do you see that great ox rearing in the air and——”
The sense of danger makes him silent, and rushing to the nearest house he
shouts at the top of his voice: “A stampede! A stampede! Call the women
and children in quickly!”
“What! Is old Father Jerome crazy?” cries Andoche, who remains seated at
a table, half overcome by his potations. Others at once realize the danger,
and shouts of “A stampede!” resound in the ears of the peasants like the
peals of a tocsin.
Among marching armies as well as sleeping camps sometimes a terrible
fright takes possession of soldiers. The horror-stricken men, without a
moment’s pause, throw down their arms and run here and there in mad
confusion. How many times has a general, sure of his campaign, seen
victory vanish because of a sudden panic without reason and for which
nobody (?) is responsible.
So with these cattle that a moment since were quiet and under control.
Some nameless terror, like an insidious simoom, has seized the herd. The
fury spreads like magic, and they madly plunge and rear, and turn the
market-place into a scene of wild and noisy chaos. The danger is supreme.
“A stampede!” The appalling announcement echoes like a peal of thunder
throughout the startled fair.
Then suddenly an ominous stillness prevails, and for half a minute not a
movement is made among the frightened people who are watching the
spectacle from a neighboring cottage. But an unearthly bellowing breaks the
brief silence, and with heads erect and glittering eyes the cattle madly paw
the ground, upturning stones and tearing up the earth until thick, blinding
clouds of dust obscure the landscape. Who now can doubt the danger? The
merciless sun goads the herd to frenzy.
Fadard, intoxicated but still prudent, followed by Andoche, approaches the
door of the cabaret[A] where they have been dawdling. A cloud of hot dust
fills their eyes and nostrils, and they gladly seek refuge within.
At the same moment the distracted beasts make another dash. Like demons
they career about the market-place, trampling upon and killing each other in
their desperate struggle to reach the exit gates. Through these they plunge
and go tearing along the highway, the earth seeming to tremble beneath
their feet. The little booths by the wayside are far from safe. A part of
Andoche’s jacket is carried away impaled upon the horn of a bull which has
dashed against the wall of the cabaret. Consternation fills the hearts of the
villagers. All who have dear ones abroad on the road or in the fields are pale
with anguish. Children, too, are missing, and the suspense is heart-breaking.
What will be the sequel? They hardly dare look out to see if the storm and
fury have at all abated.
Under a cart-shed at the end of the market-place stands a huddled group of
men. They await the end. Suddenly a little child, about two years old, runs
out of a wood-chopper’s house and starts across the road along which a part
of the herd is still rushing like a whirlwind.
“He will be killed!” yelled some one, as a young heifer racing forward just
overleaps the boy.
But a special providence seems to protect children, and for the nonce the
little fellow escapes. He miraculously reaches the shed unharmed. There is
not a man in the cart-shed who is not thrilled with the desire to go and save
other little ones from certain death. To be sure, many sit rooted to the spot,
lacking the courage to move; but not all of them are cowards.
Just as a young girl ventures to cross the road, an enormous bull comes
thundering along. She is in imminent peril. Who will attempt an heroic act
of rescue? A sickening fear seizes the spectators. Onward course the
foaming animals, following in the dusty wake of their formidable leader.
Not an instant too soon some one rushes out of a neighboring cottage and,
clasping the young girl in his arms, prepares to shield her from the
oncoming cattle. His presence of mind is remarkable; but no time is left for
escape, for the herd is upon him. He makes one more effective move—he
hurls the little maid into a clump of rushes, where she falls heavily, but
beyond the pale of danger. He rolls under the trampling hoofs, and the
whole battalion of beasts passes over the body of one who has attempted the
impossible. What a terrible sight! He is crushed and bruised, but they
expect to find him a shapeless mass.
“Who is he?” shout a hundred or more people nearly in unison.
“I believe he is Bruno Volane,” answers a peasant of Trinquelin.
“It’s just like him,” observes an old woman, “to rush to certain death. Ah!
but he is brave.”
By this time the people, too, are in a panic. Husbands and wives and parents
and children have become separated, and terrible havoc has been made by
the cattle along the roads, and valuable beasts are lost or killed. The
adjacent country looks not unlike a battle-field. Here and there the wounded
beasts lie bleeding upon the ground. The market-place shows traces of an
unusual struggle and of hard usage; the cottages are battered, windows
knocked out and doors unhinged.
This stampede surpasses anything in the way of a calamity ever known in
the annals of St. Benoit.
At length, a man armed with a cudgel strides forth as if to encounter the foe.
Each advancing bull is driven into the ring by the man Andoche calls “the
Bear.” He is a singular-looking figure as he stands there, with his unkempt
beard and hair fluttering in the breeze.
Rushing to the spot where Bruno has fallen, L’Ours (“the Bear”) takes a
guarded attitude and then strikes out in every direction, beating down the
cattle right and left.
“He will be killed!” cries some one. “Why should he go to Bruno’s aid
now? The fellow must certainly be dead.”
“Have you not noticed that L’Ours always happens around when Mother
Mathurine’s son is in danger?”
“Yes—how strange it is!”
“And why is it?” asks Rosalie, who is always prying into others’ affairs,
being the most inquisitive of women.
“Why? Why? Go and ask him. Perhaps he will tell you.”
Meanwhile L’Ours is beating off the infuriated animals, and the panic
gradually subsides. Seizing Bruno with one hand and protecting himself
with the other, he speeds to a neighboring cottage, regardless of the disorder
and confusion that prevail.
The house in question belongs to an eccentric personage, well known
throughout the country for his benevolence. Assistance is never withheld
from the worthy seeker by Monsieur Eugène. Day and night he is always
ready to give advice or succor to the unfortunate, and one can enter his
house without going through the form of knocking. A welcome is always
certain and the latch-string is never within.
Without ceremony, therefore, L’Ours enters the cottage, and advancing to a
couch gently places his burden on the counterpane. A crowd of curious
people has followed and now enters in procession. Bruno’s eyes and cheeks
are ghastly with blood and his lips are set and colorless. As he lies
motionless upon the bed Jean Manant (L’Ours) begins to feel his hands and
limbs with anxious haste.
“Nothing broken here,” he remarks, stroking the unfortunate’s left leg. “Nor
there, nor there,” he continues, probing Bruno’s arms and chest. Large
beads of perspiration stand on his forehead and tears fall from his eyes like
rain.
Monsieur Eugène arrives at this moment.
“What is the matter?” he inquires solicitously.
Jean makes no reply, and Brigitte Martinet and Félicité Mafflu proceed in
discordant concert to relate the adventure. As both speak at once and each
has a different version to tell, Eugène is unable to understand a word. So
calling Catherine, who is lingering near the door, he says: “Madame Barrau,
will you have the kindness to explain the situation? Come, Brigitte, let
Madame speak.”
Catherine comes forward. All are surprised at her lack of emotion. In a few
words she tells Monsieur Eugène all the circumstances: how Bruno rushed
to the child’s rescue, and how Jean bravely fought his way to Bruno’s
prostrate body and carried him here.
“Remarkable!” exclaims Monsieur in cheerful tones. “And now, good
people, do me the favor to wait outside in the yard until we see what can be
done. Too many here will be an inconvenience, but one or two of you may
stay to assist.”
Catherine and Sidonie, the little cripple, remain, but the others file slowly
out into the yard. As she is leaving an old peasant woman is motioned to
remain. She is a nonentity, but a woman who will follow Monsieur
Eugène’s directions to the letter without a quiver of the eyelids or the lips.
Nothing astonishes her, for she is like an iceberg—immovable and
unfathomable. In the village there are people who declare she never speaks.
Jeannille Marselon is a curiosity to the villagers, who years since have
ceased trying to thaw out this living icicle.
 CHAPTER V.
SIDONIE.

Scarcely had the door closed upon the crowd when Monsieur Eugène threw
off his coat, and bending over Bruno’s prostrate form said:
“First let us see if there is life.”
With these words he rested his head on Bruno’s chest. Jean Manant could
hardly breathe, so deep was his dread of the possible truth; while poor little
Sidonie was choked with anguish. After a moment of cruel suspense
Eugène raised his head sadly, as if to regain his breath, and then once more
inclined his ear.
Jean Manant and Sidonie were in despair. Catherine alone remained calm
and collected. A few more moments of suspense passed, and then with a
little cry Monsieur Eugène sprang up.
“He is living. His heart is beating, though faintly,” said he. “Wait!”
He immediately selected a lance from an unpretentious little surgeon’s case
near by and summoned the three women to help him.
“Here, Jeannille,” he quickly called, “support Bruno’s head and shoulders—
like that. And you, Madame Barrau, will you kindly hold his wrist firmly?
You are not easily frightened, are you? I am going to bleed him.”
“All right,” answered Catherine, without a sign of flinching, as she seized
his wrist, but poor Sidonie was trembling like an aspen-leaf.
Under the lance the vein was opened and there spurted out a stream of
blood, the sight of which nearly distracted the little lame girl.
“Good! good!” said Monsieur Eugène, with a smile.
“Is he saved?” asked Jean in a trembling whisper.
“At all events, the chances are in his favor.”
“But those cattle must have crushed his bones,” insisted Manant, who was
still possessed by a horrible doubt.
“Jean, my boy, it is a miracle; but, barring more or less severe contusions,
Bruno has escaped.”
Still incredulous, Jean regarded Monsieur Eugène steadily for half a minute
as if to read the truth in the latter’s face. Calmly Eugène returned his gaze
and soon Jean’s doubts vanished, for a sigh fell from Bruno’s lips.
A great joy illumined Manant’s face and Sidonie lifted her eyes in prayer.
Old Jeannille sat unmoved and impenetrable. Catherine looked at the young
man a little curiously. He seemed too slender and delicate a fellow to be so
daring. His white arm was like a woman’s. Indeed, what woman in St.
Benoit could not boast of more muscle than he? And his slender wrist
inspired a sort of pity in her breast.
“Poor fellow!” she murmured to herself, as she reflected how ardently,
though respectfully, Bruno loved her—not daring to confess it.
Poor fellow, indeed!
Sidonie gazed upon his shapely form in mute admiration. How perfect he
seemed to her. How noble and graceful. Ah! could he but learn to love her!
Bruno moved gently. Another sigh—a deeper one than before—came from
his lips. Monsieur Eugène was bathing his wounds with arnica and
bandaging them. Bruno’s long-fringed drooping eyelids feebly opened, and
he slowly looked around him.
Catherine affected an air of cool indifference, but Sidonie wore a look of
absolute devotion. Bruno abruptly changed his gaze from the lame girl’s
enraptured face to Madame Barrau’s, and his own became radiant for a
moment. A bit of color crept into his cheeks. Catherine continued to hold
his wrist while the vein was bleeding, and the contact of her soft hand sent a
delicious magnetic thrill through his body.
“Thank you, Madame Catherine,” he murmured—hardly above a whisper—
and then, with a smile on his lips, he again fainted away.
Catherine also smiled, but in a spirit of triumph, and Jeannille turned upon
her a look of such frigidity that the gamekeeper’s wife, blushing and
disconcerted, asked if the operation was not nearly over.
“A moment more; but if you are tired Jean will relieve you,” answered
Monsieur Eugène. Jean Manant did not require a second bidding. With a
delicacy that was wonderful in so clumsy a man, he took Bruno’s arm in his
hands. In a few minutes Bruno returned to consciousness.
“Where do you suffer?” asked Monsieur Eugène.
“I am not in pain,” said Bruno, his eyes riveted on Catherine’s face. Just
then the door slammed.
“Who’s there?” shouted Eugène, impatiently.
“It is I, Monsieur,” answered the awkward Firmin, as he entered.
“What do you want? Didn’t they tell you I was engaged and did not wish to
be disturbed?”
“But important business brings me.”
“Well, well, speak quickly.”
“I wish to ask Monsieur my rights.”
“In what respect?”
“Monsieur knows of the stampede. Well, I had just bought a pair of oxen
from Carassol, who lives at Bocasse, but they had not been surrendered to
me when the stampede commenced.”
“Well?”
“Well, they did like all the rest. They ran away.”
“Ah! And Carassol claims that the transaction was concluded in good faith
and that he is not responsible for the oxen?”
“Exactly.”
“Let us see, Finnin. Had you been drinking?”
“To speak honestly, a little, Monsieur.”
“That is right—be honest. Do you know where Carassol’s oxen were
standing?”
“Near the watering-trough.”
“And you wish my opinion in the matter? Listen. Carassol must assist you
to recover the oxen, and you must make a diligent search for them.”
“But I have paid for the beasts.”
“Then Carassol is in the right.”
“I will go to law about it.”
“You will lose the case, my boy.”
“Well, we shall see,” returned Firmin, who, seeing Catherine, immediately
approached her.
“Ah, good-day, Madame Barrau. Are you well? I perceive that you are
charming as ever.”
Blushing a little at this bold overture, Catherine answered quietly with a
word. Firmin assumed such an offensive manner toward her that, obliged to
treat it as insolence, she prepared to leave. Firmin, too, showed his intention
to depart.
“Au revoir,” said he. “Thanks for your advice, Monsieur.”
Catherine, with disgust, turning to go, observed near the door old Jeannille,
who was staring at her with cold, penetrating eyes.
Catherine again changed color. “It seems as though she were playing the
spy on me,” she thought. “Can it be that my husband has put a watch over
me? If I knew that to be the fact——”
Always impulsive, Catherine now imagined the worst. She fancied she had
discovered a plot in which everybody was arrayed against her. “This is the
third time I have caught that old hag watching me as if she would read my
thoughts.”
Firmin, meanwhile, was walking by her side.
“Go away,” said Catherine disdainfully. “One would think you had taken it
upon yourself to compromise me.”
The man certainly was a sot, but he possessed an enormous amount of
vanity. Catherine’s words therefore flattered his self-conceit.
“Upon my honor, Madame——”
Firmin for several years had served as valet to a Parisian gentleman, and he
once had heard his master speak thus to a great lady. So thinking to please
Catherine he made use of the high-sounding phrase, adding sotto voce in
her ear: “Meet me to-morrow at three o’clock at Bemacle’s Cross, chère
madame,” and without waiting for her reply he passed on ahead with rapid
step.
Catherine shrugged her shoulders. A feeling of indignation took possession
of her. She redoubled her pace and proceeded home. Since the day when
Savin humiliated her before the peasants she had been enraged and
miserable. “On my knees,” she would repeat a dozen times a day, “he
compelled me to ask pardon. On my knees!” And through her brain all sorts
of schemes of vengeance were flitting. With all the force of her darker
nature she had begun to hate the valiant soldier whose generosity she
should have recognized and reciprocated. Haunted by the idea that ever
since that memorable day people had distrusted her, she felt able less and
less to strive against the evil spirit to which she had fallen a prey.
On every side as she walked homeward an extraordinary confusion reigned.
Many were engaged in a search after the missing cattle. The men taunted
each other and quarrelled, and more than one peasant, after searching in
vain for his cow, ox, or bull, took the one nearest him and declared without
hesitation that it belonged to him. Nobody can be more ferocious than the
peasant who loses his worldly goods, and in the present instance more than
fifty had been dispossessed.
Fadard stood leaning against the wall in the bar-room of the inn when
Andoche entered. His face had been rendered hideous by a large gash—the
result of a blow from a bottle. Night was approaching. The sun, in a flood
of glowing crimson and amber, was sinking beyond the world’s west. The
leaves of the tall poplars were gently soughing as the twilight breeze,
prodigal with caresses, wooed them into soothing accents. Still the wrathy
peasants haggled and disputed the claims of possession as the animals
slowly and with great difficulty were recaptured. No one claimed the dead
cattle. The controversy was alone confined to the living. The sun in a final
burst of glory flashed a brilliant farewell to this section of the earth as
Madame Barrau, excited to hatred and anger and imagining all kinds and
degrees of troubles to be hers, went on her way with downcast eyes. Once,
however, she glanced at the parting orb, whose lustrous rays recalled to her
mind Bruno’s look of joy when he beheld her beside the couch.
If Catherine had allowed herself to remember only Savin’s generosity
instead of harboring wicked thoughts; if she had studied the situation and
reflected a little, she would have realized what a meagre sacrifice of self-
love would have won her husband over to devotion once more. But this
effort seemed to her out of the question. She only remembered that if Savin
did not love her two other men did. Had not Firmin and Bruno evinced how
much she was to be desired? Ah! they would know—either one of them—
how to appreciate her beauty and fine qualities. Thus onward she walked,
with vengeance in her heart.
Beyond the village comparative calm prevailed. Here no disputes were
heard. On the rustic little bridge she met Mother Mathurine. The poor
woman was hurrying toward St. Benoit.
“Have you seen Bruno, Madame Catherine?” she asked, with heart-broken
sobs.
“Do not take on so, Mother Mathurine. He is safe. Monsieur Eugène is
taking care of him.”
“Tell me the worst, Madame,” pleaded the old woman.
“I have, Madame. It is true—but he owes his life to Jean Manant.”
“To him? Did he save him?”
“Yes, Madame. From under the trampling herd he rescued him.”
“Again! Thanks, Madame Catherine. But I must hasten to Bruno’s side. I
may be able to do something for him.”
And with quickened steps Mother Mathurine proceeded to Monsieur
Eugène’s house, where she arrived a few moments later, breathless and
trembling. Through the yard all instinctively made way for her to pass.
“Where is my son?” she asked, hoarsely. They pointed to the front room.
Seeing her enter, Monsieur Eugène came forward to speak to her.
“One moment before you embrace Bruno. He has just fainted again.”
“You would tell me he is dead!”
“No! no! He is living and doing well. But you may embrace a brave lad
here and thank him for his courage,” and Monsieur Eugène pointed to Jean